Addicted to pleasure is the worst thing.
You can’t smile—or talk—or sing.
All you can do is moan.
If elegy—or goodbye—or greeting is required
For the one you love, you groan.
The springing world secretly notes you have retired
Into green mortality and mist, and the red clay
Breaks apart and drops into the bay
And the secret, with a dry, indifferent tone,
Nevertheless spreads
Into nature’s greens and reds
And you, who were once so fond and made of smiles,
Fade with a million small noises into the white miles.